Elva drew her dark mantle more tightly about her and crouched under a gun emplacement. A sentry went by, his helmet square against the beloved familiar face of a moon his rifle aslant across the stars. She didn’t want needless questioning. For a moment the distant blaze sprang higher, unrestful ruddy light touched her, she was afraid she had been observed. But the man continued his round.

From the air she had seen that the fire was mostly a burning forest, kindled from Yuvaskula. Those wooden houses not blown apart by the missile stood unharmed in the whitest glow. Some process must have been developed at one of the research institutes, for indurating timber, since she left…How Bors would laugh if she told him. An industry which turned out a bare minimum of vehicles, farm machinery, tools, chemicals; a science which developed fireproofing techniques and traced out ecological chains; a population which deliberately held itself static, so as to preserve its old customs and laws—presuming to make war on Chertkoi!

Even so, he was too experienced a fighter to dismiss any foe as weak without careful examination. He had been excited enough about one thing to mention it to Elva—a prisoner taken in a skirmish near Yuvaskula, when he still hoped to capture the city intact: an officer, who cracked just enough under interrogation to indicate he knew something important. But Golyev couldn’t wait around for the inquisitors to finish their work. He must go out the very next day to oversee the battle for Lempo Machine Tool Works, and Elva knew he wouldn’t return soon. The plant had been constructed underground as an economy measure, and to preserve the green parkscape above. Now its concrete warrens proved highly defensible, and were being bitterly contested. The Chertkoians meant to seize it, so they could be sure of demolishing everything. They would not leave Vaynamo any nucleus of industry. After all, the planet would have thirty-odd years to recover and rearm itself against the Third Expedition.

Left alone by Bors, Elva took an aircar and slipped off to the advanced base.

She recognized the plastishelter she wanted by its Intelligence insignia. The guard outside aimed a rifle at her. “Halt!” His boyish voice cracked over with nervousness. More than one sentry had been found in the morning with his throat cut.

“It’s all right,” she told him. “I’m to see the prisoner Ivalo.”

“The gooze officer?” He flashed a pencil-thin beam across her face. “But you’re a—uh—”

“A Vaynamoan myself. Of course. There are a few of us along, you know. Prisoners taken last time, who’ve enlisted in your cause as guides and spies. You must have heard of me. I’m Elva, Commander Golyev’s lady.”

“Oh. Yes, mistress. Sure I have.”

“Here’s my pass.”

He squinted at it uneasily. “But, uh, may I ask what, uh, what you figure to do? I’ve got strict orders—”

Elva gave him her most confidential smile. “My own patron had the idea. The prisoner is withholding valuable information. He has been treated roughly, but resisted. Now, all at once, we’ll take the pressure off. An attractive woman of his own race …”